A Game of Class
by DulcetThoughts
Summary: John is part of the Upper Class, a group of elitists who rule over the Common Class in modern society. Back from war, he reluctantly agrees to participate in the annual pairing party, where elitists chose a romantic partner. What happens when Sherlock, a commoner, stirs things up? Johnlock AU


_**A/N- So guys, here it is! My first (or will/might eventually be) full-length slash story. With my favorite pairing of Johnlock! I don't normally write AU because they can stray so far from the original characters I love, but I tried to keep this one as close to the show as possible. The only thing that really changes are the setting and circumstances. That's it. Oh, and Anderson's single. I can't really see how he was married in the first place. I'm pretty positive this story is going to stay T throughout its entirety, but… eh. Also, I'm sure this is fraught with typos, because I'm extraordinarily bad at catching those. So any that are (politely) pointed out I will try to go back and fix. Please review! Let me know if I got the characters right, and if you want to see more. I love hearing from everyone. **____** (Except you Anderson, shut up and go sit in the corner.) Anyways, thanks for reading!**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock. Because if I did, I wouldn't be sharing with the rest of you.**_

Bachelor John Watson.

Bachelor.

Oh come on.

It seemed like that was the only thing on the royal court member's minds ever since John had gotten back from war. Not the fact that he helped saved hundreds of lives and even injured himself in the process, but that he was single.

But did they really have to use the title bachelor?

John shifted in his formal military suit, easing the pressure from his leg. He had managed to wean himself off of using the cane, but his leg still pained him. Logically, it shouldn't hurt at all, as there was never an actual injury inflicted there. The mind played funny tricks on reality though, and John could only suppose it was his muddled mind that allowed him to be talked into this farce.

Looking around, the palace seemed more grandiloquent than ever. Tall, ivory white marble columns reached for the ceiling, rimmed in what was certain to be authentic gold filigree. Small, tasteful black veins ran like miniscule streams through the matching marble tiled floor, brushed by the bottoms of velvet red drapes. They seemed to go straight up into the heavens, surely constructed from yards of costly material. A lovely staircase raised a small portion of the room above the rest, creating a dynamic air in the room.

It all seemed quiet fake and unnecessary, really.

Having just return from a war where common goods were indulgences and necessities were hard to come by, this level of extravagance was just too overwhelming. John could barely believe he used to brush through this palace daily, hardly noticing and nearly bored with it. He wasn't even here for a year before he became desensitized to all of this glory.

Now, he seemed all too aware of his surroundings. Including the idiotic reason he was here. Tradition, John mused, was like a particularly stubborn fever refusing to break. On the great expanse of the ballroom floor below him, various commoners mulled about. They were so easy to spot, with their practical and comfortable clothes. John envied them. His suit was bloody hot, and not to mention itchy. This was how the Upper Army rewarded their 'valued officials'?

Each commoner had a carefully cut and embossed nametag, with both their number and name on it. It was the nicest thing they were wearing by a long shot, which was quiet sad really.

John cut his eyes across the rest of the upper class member milling about above the stair. He caught a glimpse of Lestrade, the highly esteemed officer of domestic affairs. His salt-and-pepper hair stuck out amongst the crowd, as well as the crisp uniform he wore. John respected the way that he remained calm in almost every situation, and was most certainly calmer than he was at the moment. Lestrade threw him a tight smile, before he went back to surveying the crowd. With his position came an expectation of keeping order in the kingdom, so of course his attendance was required at such a high priority event like this one. Unfortunately, John didn't have that excuse. He had just been stupid enough to be talked into it.

As he continued to scan over the ruling class crowd, he accidently locked eyes with Mycroft Holmes.

"Oh no." John groaned under his breath as Mycroft began pushing through the crowd, making his way towards him. Not so much pushing as parting though, because even the ruling class backed away from Mycroft out of respect. Born of such a minor ruling class bloodline that his family was often grouped in with the commoners, Mycroft had forged his way right into the heart of the upper class. That was something that was essentially unheard of, and wouldn't have been possible for anyone with half the intelligence of Mycroft.

"I would ask if you were enjoying yourself Mr. Watson, but your pained expression and the words I read on your lips as I approached would indicate otherwise." Mycroft said, forgoing a greeting and instead jumping right to the point in his typical monotone voice. John felt a small wave of embarrassment wash over him at the thought that he had understood that. Then took it back, because it was Mycroft's fault he was he here, after all.

John cleared his throat, shifting his feet again as he looked out into the crowd.

"It's not my cup of tea, no." John reluctantly admitted.

"I can sympathize with that. However, remember that if you can successfully choose a partner today, you won't have to hear the word bachelor again for a while." Mycroft said, with his extraordinary ability to get right to the point.

John flinched at the accursed word.

To be honest, his desire to rid himself of that title was what drove him to come here. This ancient relic of a 'pairing party' held every year was ridiculous. A good handful of about a hundred single and attractive people from the Common class were selected to be presented to the Upper class for them to pick and choose. In the older times, the elite chose there life partners here, the person they wanted to marry. However, as times changed and people began to question the wisdom of marrying someone you only knew from a view from afar, it became more of a classy way to hook-up. The common class still had no say in the matter though, and every once and a while a couple from the pairing party was married. Mostly the elitist released the commoner before the next party.

John had never been keen on participating, as he wasn't one to enjoy bending people to his will. Most of the Upper class was expected to attend at least once though, and John had already escaped it the several years he was in the army. John figured he would just find some nice looking girl, and leak information to the press about their causal relationship for about a month or two before letting the girl go. No sordid stories of scandal that often accompanied these matches, just short and to the point.

John realized he had been looking out in the crowd in a daze as he contemplated. Turning back to Mycroft, he made a stab at conversation. "So are you simply coming to obverse this year, then?" John said. Mycroft had married about five years ago, just a little while before John entered the army.

"No, actually I'm here to see if this year will be my brother's lucky year. Of course, being Sherlock, he probably will do something to ensure he isn't chosen." Mycroft sighed and gestured wearily to a man in the crowd.

John was taken aback. Mycroft family _was_ borderline enough for them to be grouped with the commoners, but he was surprised he let his own brother be pulled into this. Following Mycroft's gesture, he found Sherlock in the crowd close to the stairs. John eyebrows drew together, confused by what he saw. Sherlock looked nothing like his brother. He was young, tall, and lean; with a mess of dark curly hair. His face was punctuated by shockingly blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. John could see that, unlike the other commoners in attendance, Sherlock wasn't nervously mingling, but simply observing people from afar. There was something about his demeanor paired with his black coat and blue scarf that give him a look of sharp intelligence. John had never been attracted to men, but even he could appreciate the unique beauty of the man before him.

John turned back to Mycroft, about to speak, but pausing for a moment to decide how best to phrase it.

"I'm sure you're wondering why my brother is here. He has successfully ensured he has nothing to do with the upper class, so he is unable to stand here with us. But I only need to pull a few strings to make sure he is chosen every year." Mycroft said, tiredly staring his brother down who seem to be purposely ignoring the top of the steps.

"I'm sorry, every year?" John asked, surprised once again. Usually the commoners only attended one year, whether they were chosen or not. One who had been selected certainly never came back either.

"Yes, unfortunately Sherlock has seemed to do something to make himself unappealing for the last three years. He doesn't want to be here, no matter how good I insist it is for him, and makes that quite clear." Mycroft said.

John glanced back at Sherlock, who was now staring down a lady who was blushing red as she spoke to another man. He seemed normal enough from afar. Maybe a tad antisocial, but no obviously strange habits or deformities. What could he possibly do to drive complete strangers away?

He turned back to Mycroft, who had an eyebrow raised at. As if he could read his mind, Mycroft said, "You'll see, just wait." With that he turned on his heel and walked back into the crowd of the elite.

Just in time, as the Queen rose cleared her throat to call the masses to attention. All talking ceased at once, and attention was commanded by the Queen.

She was old, but still the highest power in the land, and demanded respect. John watched as she surveyed the group gathered before her. There were only about twenty participating elitists compared to the large number of commoners.

"Welcome, one and all. Before we start, if you would all get into your chosen spots." The Queen said, her voice rough with age but it still contained a commanding tone. The Upper class members quickly formed a line in no particular order, while the commoners rushed to get into lines sorted by their numbers. No easy task for them either, as their numbers were in the seven hundreds. The numbering of commoners at the pairing parties was only reset to one once it reached one thousand. Sherlock remained where he was, simply shifting back into the nearest line. This earned him many disapproving frowns from nearby guards and elitists, but no one seemed surprised. John glanced to the start of the line, realizing he had accidently placed himself only six people away from the front. Great.

"As you all already know, the pairing party is an annually traditional upheld for hundreds of the years. Created for when the upper class was small, it allowed for worthy commoners to marry into a life of nobility and comfort." Essentially, it was created to prevent inbreeding, and introduce attractive genes into the elite class pool. No one ever seemed to mention that though. "While that is no longer a concern, the matching is continued to remind everyone that the common man or woman can still be a part of the nobility. It links us all together, and reestablishes the importance of love." The Queen gave a small smile, as if she really believed that. "With that, let us begin."

A mixture of polite and enthusiastic applause followed the end of her speech. Everyone knew how it went from here. The first man in line stepped up and surveyed the selection. He could ask a few questions to thin the crowd, or simply pick by first sight. This one, who John didn't recognize, asked for women with blue eyes to step for forward before hastily picking a busty brunette. True love indeed, John thought shaking his head sadly. The brunette walked up the stage, and the man gave her a quick kiss on the lips before she moved to stand next to him. This was other another one of the first customs, which was originally the equivalent of an engagement ring and a show of dominance all at once. Now it was just an awkward part of the choosing. Three more people chose before it was only two away from John, and it Molly Hooper's turn. Molly was a minor member of the Upper class, a doctor known for her post-mortem research. John highly suspected she was here simply paying her dues much the way he was.

Molly's eyes nervous flicked about. She was a shy girl anyways without being put up in front of a crowd. John could see the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and how uncomfortable she seemed as she shifted in her dress. Her eyes scanned for a moment before they landed on Sherlock's assigned number, 722. Molly opened her mouth to speak, her lips already forming for the number seven when Sherlock interrupted.

"No, you don't want to do that." He looked off to the side, sounding board as he spoke.

"Um-m, excuse me?" Molly squeaked out, panic in her eyes as if she had done something wrong. Her face was as red as her hair by this point.

"You don't want to choose me. It would end badly, probably with you crying alone somewhere." Sherlock said, with a completely unsympathetic look.

"What makes you think-"

"Don't bother denying it; I know you were going to pick me." Sherlock replied, looking extraordinarily calm for someone who was breaking every unspoken rule in the pairing party book.

"You couldn't possibly-" Molly attempted to speak again before being cut off.

"Earlier tonight, you stood by yourself off to the side studying at all the men you found attractive in the room. How do I know you found them attractive? You picked at your nail polish every time you looked at one. New manicure, probably expensive and time-consuming for a low Upper class member, something you don't want to waste, so an uncontrollable nervous habit. Not used to going out and dressing up much, as the eyeliner smudges on your fingers and around your eyes would reveal, so enough pressure to trigger an old habit. Now how did I known you would chose me in particular? Simple, the fact that I stood alone I fitted your idea of another loner like yourself but I didn't look nervous so an opposite that you could lean on in times of need. That and the fact that you began looking in your purse for your lipstick after staring for several minutes-not your shade by the way- should I go on?"

Goodness, so that was what Mycroft was referring to.

The man was bloody brilliant.

Terribly rude, but still.

"For goodness sakes, you have got to be kidding me! Why do you keep getting brought back here every year?" The outburst came from the Lestrade's assistant, Anderson, who was standing next to John. He was glaring at Sherlock with all the distaste in the world.

"Shut up Anderson. Or would you rather me tell your esteemed peers about the little tryst you had with Lady Donavan in the lady's restroom earlier?" Sherlock snapped at Anderson with clear loathing. He folded his hands behind his back in a controlled gesture.

"Stop making up things." Anderson started in his defense.

"Making up? The scent of generic floral hand lotion, often in lady's bathrooms, is strong enough to be smelled down here on both you and her. Not to mention the bit of toilet paper stuck to the sole of your shoe." Sherlock finished, almost smugly. John concealed a laugh, just barely.

Lady Donavan, who was near the end of the line, must have been starting to panic because she yelled, "Guards! Someone shut him up!" Desperation didn't go well with her sparkling blue designer dress and carefully primped hair. She looked as if she had spent hours in front of a mirror, admiring her brown skin and average good looks. If Sherlock was right about their affair, the two seemed made for each other.

Two guards seemed to appear from nowhere, and rushed over to Sherlock. Hushed whispers that had broken out in the crowd when Sherlock had confronted Molly now turned into gasps and a cacophony of loud voices. One guard produced a strip of cloth from somewhere in the uniform. Sherlock struggled mildly, but physical sparring didn't seem to be his forte. As John watched, the amused smile that had donned his face as Sherlock cleverly insulted Anderson dropped away. He might be a little unconventional, but he was so extraordinarily smart. Was gagging him really necessary?

"Next year I'll make sure they never even let you through the door. Who would even pick you anyways?" Anderson said, a smug smile on his face now that the guard had succeeded in securing the gag on Sherlock. Sherlock glared back with burning ice-blue eyes as his struggling arms were pinned behind his back.

"I would."

There was a sudden silence as every head in the room tuned to look at John. Anderson was looking at him like he had just confessed to wanting to commit suicide.

Maybe John didn't think that one through.

Why had he just said that?

And exactly how loud had he said it?

He was sure the look on his face was just as shocked as the expression on everyone else's. Well, he was committed to it now. It didn't matter that he didn't like men and would rather have a friend than a random stranger-turned-lover. And he couldn't just let these upper class snobs get away with a gagging a man as brilliant as Sherlock seemed to be. Yes, even with the attitude.

"I would. I mean, I will. Take number seven-hundred and twenty-two, that is." John said, awkwardly referencing Sherlock's number, all eyes in the room pinned on him. Now he understood why Molly was sweating. Sherlock himself was studying him with narrowed eyes. From what he said to Anderson and Molly, who knows what Sherlock was inferring about him.

Anderson's mouth flopped around like a particularly unattractive fish. "But- it's not even your turn!" As if that was the craziest thing about this situation. The shock must really be getting to him.

"No, Anderson, let it be. You wanted to be rid of him anyways, correct?" John turned to see a very smug Mycroft address Anderson from the right of the Queen. The Queen herself was watching them curiously. John looked at him, stunned. He hadn't planned this- had he? He couldn't possibly.

"Guards, release him." Mycroft nodded towards the two.

They released their already loosening hold on Sherlock's arms. Looking surprised, but not quite as flabbergasted as everyone else in the room, Sherlock began walking up the stairs towards John. The sound of every step ricocheted across the enormous room. Even keeping his eyes trained on Sherlock, John could feel the crowd's gaze tracking his path up to him. After what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock stopped in front of John's face, closer than he would have liked. Up close, John was taken aback by the stunning quality of his startling blue eyes against his pale white face and midnight black hair. That gaze of his could look right through you. Sherlock's eyes flickered across his face, waiting, the blue scrap of fabric still tied around his mouth.

What was he waiting for? Oh right. The kiss that sealed the deal. John had almost forgotten. Considering how much other pretense and ceremony they had thrown out the window, he supposed he should go through with his, no matter how awkward it was going to be.

Reaching up to remove the gag, John's hands were surprisingly steady. An after effect of doing surgeries with bombs exploding outside, he supposed. Shaking those thoughts away, he slowly pulled the fabric down Sherlock's face, carefully not to touch him. Which was ridiculous considering what they were about to do.

"Sorry about this next part. Tradition, you know." John said, voice wavering even though his hand hadn't.

Sherlock looked like he had a reply burning inside of him, but just studied John instead.

Unsure of where to put his hands, John cupped Sherlock's face, as if he might suddenly back away at any moment. His senses sudden seemed to be completely consumed by Sherlock's face and his own thudding heartbeat. He was certain he looked much more uncertain and nervous than Sherlock did. Sherlock's skin was just as smooth as the soft white color advertised it to be, with his cheekbones sharp underneath John's thumbs. Sherlock's only sign of remote agreement was his lips falling open from a tight line into a parted waiting position. Before he could change his mind, John leaned in and pressed his lips gently to Sherlock's.

What John had expected was a quick peck against unresponsive masculine lips. What he didn't expect was the lovely taste of them; all spice without any trace of food, like he hadn't eaten in days. Or the way they moved back against his, strangely supple, encouraging John to give into the delightful surprise of how he actually liked the consuming feeling of Sherlock's lips on his.

They drew apart at the same time, just before it would have become awkward for the onlookers. Maybe Sherlock backed away a bit before John, but not enough for anyone else to tell.

"Well," Sherlock breathed into John's ear he turned to stand by his side. "You certainly proved a point to Anderson. But I'm can't help but wonder what exactly are your motivations. Do you even know yourself?" He questioned, voice unreasonably calm for what had just happened, in John's opinion. John didn't reply, staring straight ahead as his brain ran at both a million miles a minute and somehow simultaneous stood still.

"Don't worry. I'll deduce it soon enough."


End file.
